The Only Thing
by Perry1
Summary: Devon only wants one thing. PG with talk of drug use and language OzDevon, kind of


The Only Thing  
  
Author: Perry  
  
E-mail:   
  
Characters: Devon, Oz  
  
Rating: PG but with talk of drug use and language  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Oz or Devon, but my version of them is all my own  
  
Summary: Devon only wants one thing.  
  
Author's Notes: Devon POV -- The only thing I ever wanted was Oz.  
  
Oz's hair. His face. His tiny little body. Oz's silence.  
  
He was everything I had ever wanted, everything I could ever need, and I didn't realize this until he was long gone.  
  
All those nights, alone in the back of that van, smoking and talking and just being alive were the best times of my entire life, of this I am certain. He'd sit back on the piles of clothes and trash we'd collected since the last time his mom made us clean the van out, smoking and looking all prolific with his wide eyes and careful speech. Oz never said anything that didn't have incredible meaning behind it. This guy didn't believe in babbling. In fact, I don't think he was capable of it. Me? I love to babble. Rambling is the only way I can get any point across at all. I tend to think either after or as my mouth makes noise, so really I hardly ever have any idea what the hell I'm saying.  
  
Oz always knew though. He accepted my babbles and run-on sentences graciously as he always knew exactly what it was I was trying so hard to say.  
  
Can't say I always knew what he was saying. Points are easier to come across, concepts simpler to grasp when they're buried in too many words and stutters, rather when they are hidden in a few syllables. I always thought he was speaking in riddles no human alive could understand. Truth was I was too stoned to ever realize what he was saying. But I wasn't too gone to know whatever his point was, and he always had one, I was best to understand it and treasure it.  
  
I had no idea our days hanging out in the van were numbered.  
  
Sure, I figured we grow old some day, when we had the time, and then getting smashed in the van wouldn't be possible, it'd probably break down sooner or later. But I always figured we'd be eighty years old, hanging in the retirement home backroom, where all the old folk gather to listen to rock music that they couldn't even hear at the highest of volumes. We'd hide from the nurses and orderlies, maybe even snag a few good male ones to smoke with us, and just hang out like always. I guess I used to figure things would always work out, we'd always be friends, Oz and I, I always figured we'd be right beside each other till our dying day.  
  
Obviously I was very, very wrong. But I see this now. I know that no matter what I could have done, what things I could have said different, Oz still would leave. I went through a denial period telling myself it was all my fault, I should have paid more attention, I should have listened, I should have been more understanding. I was drinking and smoking into a self- pitying oblivion, until I got this call from Oz asking for his stuff to be sent to him.  
  
You'd think this would send me further down, since this meant he was really, really gone. But it didn't. I don't know, maybe it was hearing his voice, the way his tone was lighter and happier than I'd heard it before, the way he said how great it was to talk to me. But I think it was when he gave me his address, and told me specifically not to tell Willow that I really knew it wasn't my fault Oz was gone.  
  
It was hers.  
  
Willow Rosenberg, the red-head that ruined our friendship. And it wasn't just her fault that he left, oh no. He skipped countless practices because of that chick, and played worse because of it. We hardly ever got to hang out in the van those last few months, hell that whole last year, he was so wrapped up in her.  
  
There were a few times though, where he still found the time for me, and it made up for all the hours spent at home pissed because he had blown me or the Dingoes off. I didn't care how mad he could make me; I just focused on how happy I was when he was around.  
  
I try not to think about what I could have done if I had focused on how angry I was most of the time; what I could have said to him if I had known that it was Willow's fault our friendship was waning. But I didn't know, I'm not too observant when it comes to things of any complexity.  
  
Which might be considered ironic when you think about it, I don't like confusing things, yet what I'm writing could be considered higher-level thinking as Oz would have said. He would have smirked while he said it too, in such a way I was never sure if he was making fun of me or not. But that's okay. He was Oz. He is Oz. Oz is okay.  
  
God, all I want is Oz back. All I need is Oz..  
  
You know, I got him back once, I did. And I had him all to myself for an entire night. Then I lost him. Again. And guess whose fault it was?  
  
A billion points to the guy in the back who guessed Willow.  
  
Willow and the blonde bitch Oz was going on about just before he left for good.  
  
But at least he didn't leave without giving me a well-deserved goodbye. And a little hint, something along the lines of asking when the next time the Dingoes would play in L.A.  
  
I said next month, I didn't know. I guessed.  
  
We're on our way to L.A. now, you know. I'm not getting my hopes up, because disappointment can really kill your performance, but I don't doubt that there will be a little puff of red hair in the back of the club.  
  
Silhouetted in the beam of light coming from one of the ceiling lamps, he just might be standing in the back, drink in one hand, the other in his pocket. He won't be nodding to the music, but he'll just be. Just be there, staring at me, with a little smirk on his face that I'll try to understand to the point of confusion until it'll dawn on me.  
  
It'll be my Oz, watching me sing to him, my little Oz waiting for me.  
  
We might not always hang out in the back of the van, and I'm not going to get my hopes up, but we just might tonight.  
  
Oz, standing almost at the exit door, silent, content, smirking.  
  
Oz.  
  
He's all I ever wanted. All I ever needed.  
  
And now we're pulling into the parking lot of the low-end dive we'll be playing at, and I try not to see it. But it's there. Blue and beautiful, shining in the moonlight like I'm supposed to see it. Hell, he probably positioned it so I would, so the light would shine right into my eyes at this exact moment and so I would know that a handful of hours from now I'll be in the back of that van. Everything will be perfect, if only for a little while.  
  
And I almost see the red hair, shimmering from the streetlight. I almost see his face behind the wheel.  
  
I head into the club, making a point to cross paths with the van. I walk in front of it, knocking my fist onto the hood like he always hated, and look at the windshield. Past the Devon MacLeish that's reflected in the glass, I almost make eye contact with him.  
  
I give him one of those puzzling smirks he always gives me and he nods to me as I pass.  
  
"Devon."  
  
It's more of him making a statement than calling my name. I keep walking away, but look over my shoulder to see his red hair, wide eyes, and subtle grin watching me go.  
  
This time I'm the one leaving him, but hardly like any of the times he had left me. I'm leaving because I'm late. I'm leaving because that will make coming back to him so much nicer.  
  
Maybe that's why he left so many times, just to come back. Hell, it's as good of an excuse as any. I've now decided that as long as we come back to each other, I can forgive the time we spend apart.  
  
--End-- 


End file.
